By his reckoning, this child had already passed the age of fifteen this year.
She crouched halfway down, leaning close to the chrysanthemum. A cool breeze swept in, making the flower bow at its slender waist and stirring the hair across her forehead. Unlike the chrysanthemum, though her strands were just as light as the flower swaying in the wind, they danced with the breeze before obediently settling back on her shoulders. The frail chrysanthemum, by contrast, instantly shed its petals, which slipped weakly from the stem.
Unexpectedly, she reached out and caught a petal. Its orange-yellow color, hidden in her palm, stood out all the more against her soft pink skin. Withered and fallen, it was all the more pitiful for it.
